


il mio soldatino. (what do you want?)

by missmalodramatic



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, The Heroes of Olympus - Rick Riordan
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Cross-Posted on Wattpad, M/M, Mortal AU, You'll see what I mean, but their names are nico and will, but they aren't actually nico di angelo and will solace, idk what im doing, mortal AU but the actual series also exists in this universe, rated T for like two lil swear words nothing else, the main characters resemble nico and will wholly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-10-12 02:39:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17459042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmalodramatic/pseuds/missmalodramatic
Summary: Bianca held his hand. 'Nico, il mio soldatino. What do you want?'Nico wanted a lot of things back then. He wanted Bianca to stay alive. He wanted his dad to care for him. He wanted to feel at least a little like he belonged. He wanted the stories in his head to mean something, anything. He wanted Will to stay his best friend, for at least an eternity more.And he lost all of them, one after the other. (All except one. Will. Will never left.)He's not sure what he wants anymore.





	il mio soldatino. (what do you want?)

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, so forewarning, the way this fic is written, the main characters are an alternate universe version of Nico and Will. They're both mortal but in this universe the Percy Jackson books ALSO exists, and it just so happens to be mortal Nico's favourite series. 
> 
> It'll make sense as you read, hope you enjoy!

Gifts. Tokens. Promises.

Words of praise. Esteemed intellect.

This is how it works.

So first, the words start flowing. They bubble and froth inside your brain and the temperature cooks to a 1000°. They simmer and the heat flickers. It overflows, drips down the side of your mind and tries to fit into the gaps and the cracks and the broken lines. There's too many of them and they roll off in clumps. You're left as a blubbering idiot.

'What do you want to achieve with this?'

She stares him down. Muddy brown eyes. Hard edged and sharp. Her forehead is creased, and it makes her look a hundred years older than she is. Her blazer is pristine and clean. Her hair is a mop of string. She's looking at him with that face of adult pity. She doesn't think he's good enough.

It's obvious.

He fidgets in his seat. His hands are wringing together under the desk. His knee starts bouncing. Involuntarily. This happens. When he's nervous. When there are too many words building in his mind.

'I... I want...' _I want. What does he want?_ There's a poster hanging behind her. It's advertising creativity. 'I want to tell a story.'

She folds her hands over her desk and shifts to the side. Lifts her pen, poses it on blank paper as if to write something and keeps it poised, perfect and still. Her lips twist and there's venom in her voice. 'What story are you trying to tell here?'

Again. He fidgets. Can he not stop fidgeting? Her words are getting louder. His words are getting softer.

'Look. I just don't think this piece is working well together. You need a theme. A concept that holds it in place. I can't find the purpose to this writing.'

He nods and hooks his bag over his shoulder. 'Okay, yeah. I understand.'

_Hurry. Hurry. Just get out of here._

And here's how it goes from there. The words have melted to the sides of your brain like sticky, sweetened toffee. It's heavy and its weighing you down. You don't think you can carry it.

But now, you're sitting in the sun. Under the tree. Head lolled back against the bark. Fingers woven into the grass. Nobody is here.

The toffee starts melting. Running thick and smooth. Tracing geographical maps of lakes. Trickling. Racing. The same way raindrops collect and chase each other down car windows.

Words come back to him. Shapes under his hand.

This is the purpose. Attempting to speak in writing when he can't speak for shit.

His friends don't really get it.

Or maybe they know too well.

Hold on, they say. Back up. Wait. You're Nico  D'Angelo. What does she mean she doesn't understand the concept? I've read your stories, man. You need more faith in yourself.

But that's not how this game works. He could believe in himself all he wanted. It still won't get him anywhere if he can't write well. And his teacher has a point. He should listen to her and improve himself. But, it's so overwhelming. All he wants is to write. Write from his heart.

Is that such a bad thing?

 

'I just don't think I can keep up with this course.' That's what he'd said the first time Will had confronted him about it, just a few weeks ago.

Closing and opening and closing his hands, crossing and uncrossing and crossing his legs. He didn't stop until Will rolled his eyes and hung his legs over his to trap him there.

'Stop moving and listen. You are a story teller.' Will smiled lopsidedly and tapped his head fondly. 'You've got something in there that none of us have. And if you give that up, I will sue the world.'

'That's not possible.'

'It will be once I become the president.'

'That's delusional.'

There's a reason Will is his best friend. He's perceptive. He picks up on everything. He'd sat down next to Nico at their lunch table (the one outside where no one but his friends ever sat at) and he had noticed. The tense muscles. The trembling hands. He didn't say anything. Didn't even ask: _'Is this another panic attack?'_

He simply nudged Nico to his feet, took his hand and walked him away from the crowd until the bustling noises from the kids, their hollers and their whispers all faded into the background. They sat with their backs against the bathroom wall. (No one used this bathroom - not after that one kid claimed he saw an apparition of a dead girl. Just a lie. Obviously. Ghosts aren't real.)

Will didn't let go of his hand until he'd calmed down and started breathing more slowly.

'I can't keep up with this course.'

'Yes.' Will told him. 'You can. This is what you've wanted since forever. First grade, you told me you wanted to be a writer. I know you're scared but you have to try.'

'I tried a whole term. It's exhausting.'

'Why is it exhausting?'

That made him laugh. 'This isn't a therapy session. I have enough of those already.'

Will smiled back. 'But I'm your personal doctor, remember? You have to listen to me, Doctor's orders.'

The personal doctor was a running joke between them. It started in ninth grade when Nico told Will that he was a lot like Will Solace - a character from Nico's favourite book series, about demigods and monsters and quests to save the world. 

The Percy Jackson series was exactly what had started up his entire fixation on writing. It was the inspiration behind all his own stories. 

He had to explain to Will of course. _Will Solace is a son of Apollo. He's the best medic at Camp Half Blood. And he's a super great human being. Possibly the best._

Will had laughed. And did that thing only Will could pull of. Bopped his head and breathed out a _'Cool.'_ As if it was a part of his laugh.

'He's also gay. Or bi. Or pan. Whatever.' Nico had added.

Will had only laughed some more. 'Great, we match then.'

There was a character named Nico in the books too. A young boy who spent too much time being lost, trying to figure himself out. Incidentally, he ends up falling a little in love with Will Solace.

He didn't ever tell Will that part of the story. And if there were any parallels between Nico di Angelo from the books, and Nico from life, they were purely coincidental. 

That's what Nico told himself. 

 

Under the tree. Head lolled back against the bark. Fingers woven into the grass. Nobody is here. Not even Will.

It'll be lunch soon, and the masses of kids will flood outside. The table he sits at is in clear view, and his friends will see what a blubbering idiot he is. The words are starting to freeze again. Stolen words from somebody else's head. He's not sure if he can face anyone just yet. He'd stumble, he'd fall. He just wants Will, holding his hand and telling him he's okay.

 

The first time it happened, no one knew what to do.

March 3rd, 2017. Eleventh grade. Last year. They'd been on a bus, on the way back from a three day school camp. Three days of hell. Three days of avoiding Will, skirting eye contact and challenging stares across the dining table. If their friends noticed a change, they'd said nothing.

The first day they'd been there, it was perfect. Remote, set apart form the outside world. Their cabin was small. Cosy. Clean. Smelling of the sea breeze. His friends whooped and laughed when they walked in, claimed their beds and fought for the top bunks. Later, they played Mafia in the dark long after lights were meant to be out, under torch light and sharing hushed whispers. Nico felt safe, content.

By the second day, things started going sideways. He was at the Canoe Lake with Will when he got the phone call from his dad.

He never got phone calls from his dad. (Not unless it concerned Bianca. He prayed that this wasn't about Bianca.)

The Universe never listened to his prayers. The Universe didn't care for him at all.

It took six words for everything left inside him to fall apart. 'She's been admitted into the hospital.'

Nico couldn't think. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't feel. His chest felt as if it would cave in.

This was the first time Will had to pull him aside and get him to calm down. He took Nico by his shoulders and told him to match his breathing. In. Out. In, and out. Blue eyes held his gaze, panicked and unsure but unwilling to let Nico take this alone. Will stayed until Nico could breathe again. He had no words to offer, he only pulled Nico into a hug and held him.

Nico's heart stammered out of his chest. It was all too much for him.

So he did what he does best. Nico hid himself. He folded in on himself. He avoided Will, brushed everyone off and pulled up his walls - all the walls Will had spent years pulling down, stone by stone.

'She's okay for now.' His father had said to him. 'She'll be okay. I'll pick you up when you return home. She'll be here for you.'

Nico couldn't help the anger that stewed at those words. He shouldn't have to spend another day at the camp. Bianca was in hospital. He should be there. He had every right. But he smothered his anger. He smothered his pain. Even if he knew that never went down well.

Will tried to talk to him afterwards. Ask him how he was. If he was okay. He was trying his best, the only way he knew how, by asking questions and crowding his space. (He only meant well.)

Nico ignored him. Skirted around him. Didn't talk to him. He didn't want to talk to anybody.

The bus ride back was awful, sitting next to Will. They didn't play music like they usually did. They hardly spoke a word to each other. Nico barely even turned to look at him.

 

He only wants Will now, holding his hand and whispering his comfort. Even if Nico wasn't always there to accept it, Will was always there for _him_. He was a crap friend to Will.

Will deserved better.

 

When he visited Bianca at the hospital, she'd been weak and tired, but she smiled when she saw Nico at the door. She held out her arms and Nico walked into her familiar embrace, cried on her shoulder and immediately felt terrible about it. _She_ was hurting. He should be strong. He should be holding _her_.

_Bianca deserved better._

Nico dried his tears and sat with her, telling her stories from school she'd heard a thousand times already. She listened and smiled at him. There was too much life in her eyes - how could they ever blink out? He kept her company every day, until she wasn't there to keep his company any longer.

 _Nico di Angelo_ from his favourite stories had a sister named Bianca. Her life had blinked out and it only took a page. He'd cried when he read that the first time, he was ten and he'd run to his Bianca and had hugged her waist and begged her never to leave him alone. Bianca had knelt in front of him and promised him he would _never_ be alone.

 

She was right. Always, she was right. He was never alone. Sometimes though, he felt as if he wasn't even real, like everyone else was a dream - he may as well have been alone.

Nico picks himself up and pushes up away from the tree, his feet takes him to their lunch table. He digs out his phone and his hands tremble as he types out a text for Will. (He doesn't want to be alone.)

_Can you meet me at our table?_

Will replies instantly. _I'll be there._

Will never lies, Will never hides. He's there in three minutes. 'Are you okay?' Is the first thing he asks.

Nico only nods. Will takes his hand and pulls him down to sit at the table. 'Talk to me. What happened?'

 

'Talk to me,' Bianca had said. 'Whatever's bothering you, talk to me.'

She was still at the hospital, but she'd been getting better. They thought she'd make it. She looked so alive that night, not a trace of tiredness. The stars were at her back, shining through the glass window. Her brown eyes fixed him with kindness and concern.

Nico was pathetic, truly pathetic. Taking all his whimsical problems to her. (But who else did he have?)

'There's this boy.' He'd mumbled.

Bianca smiled. 'Is it Will?'

She knew. Of course, she knew. This was Bianca. He'd never been able to keep anything from her. He nodded mutely. 'He told me he loved me.'

Will hadn't meant to, it had just slipped out. He apologised right away. Not for loving Nico, for dumping it on him while Bianca was in hospital. They'd been sitting on his bed doing homework. Sunlight had been streaming through the window. Nico had looked at Will - only for a second. (A second was enough.)

Will, with his hair tangled up in the streams of light. Will, with his stupid smile. Will, who whispered _'I think I'm in love with you_ _.'_ Like he'd whispered it to himself, without meaning to; like it was a realisation he could no longer deny.

'He's your best friend. Don't you love him too?'

'I do.' Nico told Bianca, wringing his hands. That familiar feeling of panic was starting to well up in his chest. 'But he meant it in a different way.'

Will was never ashamed. Will never kept things to himself. Will was honest. He told Nico he liked boys all the way back in eight grade. He said it casually, like it was no big deal. Nico's heart stopped momentarily, then started back up again, beating faster than ever. But he nodded and joked about it. _'As long as you never fall for me, we're cool.'_

 _'I'll try not to,'_ Will had said, but his smile hadn't quite reached his eyes. _'But no promises.'_

'He's in love with you, you mean.' Bianca realised. It wasn't a question, it was a simple statement.

Nico nodded. 'I wish he never told me. I wish he just kept it to himself. I can't love him the way he wants me to.'

Bianca held his hand. 'Nico, il mio soldatino. What do you want?'

Nico wanted a lot of things back then. He wanted Bianca to stay alive. He wanted his dad to care for him. He wanted to feel at least a little like he belonged. He wanted the stories in his head to mean something, anything. He wanted Will to stay his best friend, for at least an eternity more.

And he lost all of them, one after the other. (All except one. Will. Will never left.) He's not sure what he wants anymore.

 

Will is looking at him earnestly. Honest, blue eyes - much sharper than the muddy brown lenses that stared him down and told him he was worthless.

'I wrote my story for Bianca.' He tells Will. Will doesn't let go of his hand. 'Mrs Dodds didn't like it. She said there's no purpose to the writing.'

His throat almost closes up as he says it. Purpose. His purpose is Bianca. His story was for Bianca. How could it not have been good enough?

'Nico.' Will says. It's not a voice of pity. It's not even a voice of understanding, Will doesn't understand. He can't possibly. But it is a voice that has promised to stay, a voice that's always there for him. (He was never so good to Will, he was never as honest. He doesn't know why Will stayed.) 'Don't let that old hag get to you. If Bianca could read it, she would love every word you've written.'

Nico opens his mouth to protest but Will cuts him off. 'Not just because she's your sister, but because your writing is brilliant. I'd know, I've read it.'

'Thanks,' Nico mumbles. He can't meet Will's eyes when he's so truthful.

'But maybe,' Will says, more gentle. He nudges Nico and makes him look up. 'Maybe, you should write a story for yourself. A story you write for _you_ will always have purpose.'

Nico wants to argue - he's not worth being written about. What would he write for himself anyway?

_Nico, il mio soldatino. La ragione per cui vivo. What do you want?_

He doesn't even know what he wants.

But Will looks so honest. Will is so truthful. Full of earnest words. No gifts or tokens. No promises made that he can't keep.

Words of praise. Esteemed intellect. Only where it's deserved.

He's looking at Nico like he's prepared to write sonnets and verses for him, about him. Like he'd truly be worth it. Like he deserves it. That in itself gives Nico enough strength to believe a little in himself.

_God, what did I ever do to deserve this golden ray of sunshine._

The Universe took everything from him, and left him Will. _He's too bright for me._

He's not prepared to lose this last shred of hope.

He wants _this_. Sitting at their table moments before the crowd spills out of the school buildings, sitting by themselves, no one but each other.

Will cups Nico's cheek with his palm. (Nico can't help but lean into his touch.) His blue eyes are a little sad. 'Write what you want. It'll be perfect, I promise.'

Nico starts to wish he was honest with himself sooner. Will's blue eyes are stealing his breath.

 

He remembers one of the last days left of eleventh grade; they were standing outside the Dining Hall, waiting in line to get inside. Sunlight reflected off the glass walls of the building and caught in Will's hair, drew gossamer curtains over his blue eyes.

Will turned around in that moment. (It would've been fine if he hadn't turned around. Really, it would've been, but Will never listened to Nico's heart.) He smiled. _Smiled like the sun was hanging off his lips._

Will, his best friend, who was standing so close. Will, who had said he'd loved him.  _I think I'm in love with you._

Will who stood beside him at Bianca's funeral. Will who stayed, and stayed, and stayed. Will who stole his breath away.

Nico was frozen. Stunned. He couldn't say a word.

He looked away and didn't say a word, not for the next hour at least.

It started something in his heart. Something he couldn't place his finger on, and his head was too crowded, too noisy to let him give these thoughts the time and attention it deserved.

What scared him more than anything was the sudden and simple birth of that moment, like it had already existed deep inside him and he'd only just noticed a glimpse of its truth. Like he'd been thinking this way for longer than he cared to think.

He could've gathered it all up in his arms - he could've kissed Will, told him he loved him back. _Nico di Angelo_ from his favourite stories loved his Will. It felt like maybe the Universe was trying to tell him something.

It was all there in front of him, but he did nothing about it. Will moved past it (it looked that way, anyway). He started dating other boys and other girls, while Nico's stomach and Nico's heart and Nico's mind all warred against each other, fighting back honesty.

He should've been honest to himself long ago.

 

_Il mio soldatino. What do you want?_

 

Here's how it works.

_Gifts. Tokens. Promises._

_Words of praise. Esteemed intellect. They don't mean shit._

The words are flowing. They bubble and froth inside your brain, the temperature cooks to a 1000°. They simmer, the heat flickers, it overflows; drips down the side of your mind and fits into the gaps and the cracks and the broken lines. It makes up who you are, these words that you write, for no one else but you.

_'What do you want to achieve with this?'_

He wants to be free. He wants to steal back what he deserves, all that was stolen from him.

The Universe took everything, but it left enough clues in the space of absence. There's enough strength left. He's taking back himself.

_'I want to be honest to who I am, as a person, as a writer. I want to be honest about who I love.'_

He loves Bianca. He loves Will. He's starting to love himself.

 

And here's how it goes from there. You're standing in the sun, under the tree and the boy you love is walking towards you. Everything clicks into place. The words that have melted down the sides of your brain track rivers and maps of lakes, rain drops chasing down car windows. They gather at your heart, and when you speak, they speak your truth.

'Someone looks happy.' Will tells him. He's smiling like the sun is hanging off his lips.

Nico steps close to him. Panic is still smothering in his stomach, but bravery wells in his heart. 'I _am_ happy.'

'Did Dodds like the story?'

Nico laughs. 'No, she hated it. Said I have no chance. Never becoming an author.'

Will's forehead creases and his eyebrows furrow. His smile is hesitant. 'Then how come you're grinning like an absolute madman?'

'I realised I don't really care.'

'Oh yeah?'

Nico smiles, meets Will's blue eyes and doesn't look away. 'I know what I want. I want to write for as long as I live, and I'm going to do it my way. I'll write what I want.'

Sunlight is warming Will's cheeks and his smile is ridiculously wide. 'Sounds like a plan.'

'There's only one other thing I want.' Nico tells him. This time, _he_ takes Will's hand. 'If you'll let me have it.'

'Nico,' Will's voice is only a whisper. It wavers and shakes. 'What is it you want?'

_You. Right now, I only want you._

He brings up his other hand to hold the side of Will's face. Will doesn't stop him. Not when he brushes his thumb over Will's lips, not when he kisses him, not when he runs his hands through Will's golden curls, catching the sunlight that's always there under his own fingers, and not when he voices the thoughts of his heart, 'You. I only want you.'

 _Il mio soldatino._ What is it you want?

This. Right here, right now. This is what he wants.

He wants each moment, as they come.

He wants to be happy. He wants solace. He wants love.

_Il mio soldatino._

_I want love._

 

**Author's Note:**

> The title and the repeating line il mio soldatino was inspired by Paola Bennet's song 'Soldatino (Nico's Lullaby)'
> 
> Hope you enjoyed the story! Let me know how I can improve in the comments!! And be as critical as u please.
> 
> Thank you for reading <3


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